


baby teeth

by hearthouses



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood Drinking, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Frottage, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Possessive Behavior, Psychological Grooming, wet dick Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27212431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/pseuds/hearthouses
Summary: When Eddie's father comes back as a vampire, he has a lot to learn about himself.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Frank Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	baby teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).



> Hello! If you clicked on this story early this morning, and are now confused at how the story is larger: blame ao3. It had saved a previous version of this story and did not update when I tried to upload the final version. I am so incredibly sorry! If you don't know what I'm talking about, then I'm really glad and hope you enjoy the story! 
> 
> Please see bottom notes if you need more extensive content warnings.

The basement was black when Eddie cracks open the door, not a sliver of light that even his eyes can pick up, just neverending blackness, silent except for the rumble of the furnace and the creaking of the house as it settled. 

They had blocked out the light, him and his father, working together to paint over the glass of the small windows that sat high atop the cement brick walls. It wasn't like Richie's basement with its paneled walls and thick shag carpet, but his father hadn't seemed to mind; they painted over the cement blocks regardless, making them brighter with sky blue paint and laid rugs across the leveled cement floor. It was almost home-y, welcoming, despite the lack of natural light. 

Eddie's father slept in the basement, ever since Sonia Kaspbrak fled Derry in the middle of the night when Frank had reappeared at their door for the first time in thirteen years. 

It was the talk of the town, still is if Eddie listens hard enough when he cuts across town on his bike, picking up snatch and bits of conversation, hearing his name on their lips— _there goes the Kaspbrak boy, did you hear what happened?_

He never could figure out what theory everyone had landed on, or if no one could come to a consensus as to what happened to make Sonia abandon her precious son so abruptly. Eventually it'll be old news, fading with time as people forget—forgetting was easy in Derry, especially if you were an adult. 

Eddie knew they'd never get close to the truth, wouldn't believe it if he flat out told them; no one believed them about the clown, why would this be any different?

It was late-afternoon and Eddie knew his father wouldn’t be up until at least dusk, but that doesn’t stop him from slipping off his sneakers and pulling off his socks, stuffing them into his shoes, then taking that first step down the stairs. Eddie closes the door behind him with care, making sure it shuts all the way, before descending into the darkness. Eddie knew his way by touch alone, holding onto the railing and letting his other hand trail down the wall as he takes it one step at a time. When he reaches the last step and feels cool concrete under his feet, Eddie knows the exact number of steps he has to take to make it across the basement to his father’s bed. 

Frank Kaspbrak didn’t make a sound when he slept, no soft breathing or snoring, and Eddie knew better than to listen hard for a heartbeat; he slept heavy, still as stone, curled under the blankets. Eddie kneels when he gets close enough to feel the platform bed frame knock against his ankles—his father slept low to the ground, said it was important for reasons Eddie didn’t quite understand yet, especially not when his father’s bedroom was already underground. Eddie takes a deep breath, then crawls further up the length of the bed and reaches out; his palm makes contact with a cool cheek for a moment, feeling the chilled skin cupped in his hand when long fingers wind around his wrist and yanks him forward. 

Eddie falls into the bed on his back, his father peering down at him from above with glowing eyes, his heavy weight pinning Eddie to the mattress; Eddie can’t see them, but he knows his fangs are out, bared, ready to bite, ready to kill. 

"Daddy?” he says, his voice coming out small and childish, a waver in his throat he couldn’t swallow back. 

Frank’s eyes still glow, but Eddie can see the predator melt away into something warmer, more human, like his molton brown eyes, so much like Eddie’s own, were set alight. “Kiddo,” his father sighs, rolling off of Eddie as a strange pang aches in Eddie’s chest when his weight lifts off his body, hands itching to grab ahold of him and drag him back—it doesn’t last long after his father gathers him in his arms, tucking Eddie against his bare chest, his father’s nose and mouth buried in Eddie’s hair as he feels his father breathe him in. “What did I tell you about sneaking up on me when I’m sleeping?”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, against his skin as he burrows under the covers and fits himself against his father’s side, “I wanted to come nap, I’ve been getting so tired lately during the day, but I didn’t want—I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“It’s okay, kiddo,” his father says, running a hand down the back of Eddie’s head, stroking through his hair, petting him as Eddie eases into relaxation, giving way to the exhaustion he felt all throughout the school day. “I figured that would happen the older you get, fatigue during the day due to exposure to the sun, it’s normal. You can always come here and rest, just stop trying to be so sneaky, I almost…” he trails off, his arms wrapping tighter around Eddie, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “It’s not a great idea to sneak up on a sleeping vampire, okay?” 

Eddie nods, mouth opening of its own accord as a yawn stretches out, sucking in a deep breath. “I promise I won’t do it again.” 

His father laughs, a rumble under Eddie’s ear. “You said that last time, but okay, kiddo—lets get some rest.” 

Frank slides back down into the bed, pulling the blankets over Eddie’s shoulder and tucking him in—Eddie isn’t sure when he falls asleep, maybe after the blankets, maybe before, but he drifts off easy, slipping under. 

Eddie would never have done this with his mother, her touches to be endured as his stomach twisted into knots, queasy as he resisted the urge to shrug her out, wipe away the kiss she left on his cheek. His mother’s affection came with a grasping, possessive sensation that Eddie never could quite shake, like honeyed sweetness to cover up the taste of poison. His father gave out affection for free, casual simple touches that Eddie found himself leaning into, rather than shrinking from. He liked sleeping in his father’s bed in the blackness, despite being too old for it now—maybe it was the missed time, the lost opportunity, or maybe it was how his father made him feel. 

_Safe_ seems an odd word to give to a vampire, but that’s the word that rolls around in his head when he thinks of his father. _Safe,_ Eddie feels safe with him. 

Eddie’s life had shifted. For better or worse, things were different—a year had passed since his mother left and his father took her place, and Eddie watched as their house thinned out, less clutter giving way to more breathing room, the house no longer feeling like a place he had to escape, but something he could call home. But it wasn’t just in big ways, there were small events that become habits, then traditions. 

They had dinner with the Toziers every Friday night, after the sun had gone down.

The first time, Eddie hadn’t known where they were going. His father had told him to get dressed, that they were visiting some old friends—Eddie, eager to know more about who the man his father was, got ready as quickly as he could, putting on his casual best. When he came down the stairs, he remembered his father had smiled when he reached the bottom and rested his hands on Eddie’s shoulders. 

_You look good, kiddo_ , he said, teasing but sincere, staring down at Eddie with an intensity that made him shiver; he ruffled Eddie’s hair after, breaking the moment, mussing it up, freeing the strand from the gel he had put in it, the way he combed it flat. _You don’t have to do your hair like your mother wanted you to, you know? Not with me._

There were a lot of things Eddie didn’t have to do anymore, but he couldn’t help but fall into old patterns, bad habits; he was learning, changing, but sometimes he worried it wasn’t quick enough, but his father never let on he was running out of patience. 

Eddie knew the route to get from his house to Richie’s better than he knew the way the lines on his palm looked, knew every which way to get there, all the shortcuts, but when they drove over, he kept telling himself that it wasn’t possible, remembering the way his mother loathed Maggie Tozier, referring to her as _that woman_ with a bitter disdain that Eddie could feel. They pulled into the driveway and Mr. Tozier had come out of the house, loping across the lawn on his long legs to come greet them, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s father in a firm hug. 

In retrospect, it shouldn't have come as a surprise that his father knew the Toziers—they were a family of werewolves, after all, and perhaps monsters flock together—but it caught Eddie off guard in that moment, wondering what other secrets might be unearthed in time. 

Mr. Tozier pulled back and held Eddie’s father by the shoulders, looking him over, _you haven’t aged a day since I last saw you, Frankie, not a single wrinkle or a gray hair in sight, pretty as a picture._

Eddie watched as his father ducked his head, bashful and shy in ways Eddie had never seen him, his father with his smooth confidence and consuming presence, grinning down at his shoes. 

_You don’t look bad at all yourself, Went, not at all._

Mr. Tozier had looped his arm around Eddie’s father’s neck, towing him inside as Eddie followed from behind, watching the way they fell into place beside one another, years melting away and it was like his father had never left. 

Richie was hovering inside the door, looking at the scene with wide eyes and a faint blush to his cheeks, blinking when Mr. Tozier called for Maggie and Richie’s mother came from the kitchen, and then had embraced Eddie’s father, pressing kisses to both his cheeks. Eddie slid inside, shutting the door behind him and moving to stand beside Richie, both of them looking between themselves as Maggie cupped Eddie’s father’s face in her hands. 

_Oh, it’s so good to see you again, we've missed you so much._

When they sat down to dinner, Richie and Eddie sat beside each other, kicking one another under the table and whispering back and forth, like nothing had changed—only it felt freer, more at ease, like everything in Eddie’s life had been fraught before and now it was letting up, just a little, just enough to let Eddie breathe for once without needing to reach for his inhaler like a safety net. 

_So do you hang upside down like a bat now?_ Richie asked, voice low, kicking at Eddie’s ankle. 

Eddie laughed, rolling his eyes. _No more than you eat out of a doggie dish, wolf boy._

 _Oh, I’m ‘wolf boy’ now?_ Richie said, elbowing him in the ribs, causing a chain reaction of Eddie kneeing him in the thigh. _Do I get to call you bat boy? Like Batman, but much less cool._

Eddie felt his father’s eyes on him throughout dinner, watching him as he sipped from his wine glass and didn’t touch his plate. Eddie caught snatches of conversation when Mr. Tozier had asked his father where he had gone, where he had been and Eddie wanted to listen in, hear everything his father had done when he wasn’t in Derry, when he was away from Eddie, but a rueful part of him couldn’t stand to hear it, the bitterness that lurked under his skin. 

He kept his attention on Richie, always on Richie in the easy way it was to be with Richie and feel like you had his undivided focus, like Richie’s world whittled down to Eddie and Eddie alone, like Eddie was special as they talked together, low and secretive like conspirators. Eddie felt the prickle of his father’s eyes on him, when Mr. Tozier or Maggie took a turn in speaking, zeroing his focus on Eddie, who never looked up or looked away from Richie.

It was like that every Friday, a new routine, a new pattern. New normal.

  
  


“Eds, come on, I’ll be fine,” Richie says, slumping down in the kitchen table chair, giving Eddie an exaggerated pout. Eddie shakes his head, fighting back a grin as he turns away from him and walks through the kitchen towards the bathroom. “I can feel myself healing up already!” he hears Richie call after him, but Eddie couldn’t risk turning back, not in his current state. 

Eddie can smell blood—fresh blood, not the stale, dried stains on Richie’s clothes that smell decayed and oxygenated, but right from the vein, still bleeding, dripping out of cuts in Richie’s skin that haven’t healed yet. Eddie isn’t used to the scent yet, how it fills his nose and mouth in a tantalizing way that makes him almost start to drool, his baby fangs sliding out from his gums. Eddie knows the scent of blood, the coppery iron stench that the hospital rooms Eddie has been in that have tried to cover up with bleach and sterilize with alcohol, but was too organic to be simply washed away. But this smells different—fruity and ripe, like if he got it in his mouth, it would be sticky and sweet. 

Eddie grabs the first aid kit out of the hall bathroom, off the side of the kitchen—it was easier to find now that his father had taken inventory and organized the house overnight, everything had its place, there was never too much of one thing, no full cabinets of medications Eddie didn’t need—and rushes back to the kitchen, trying to hold his breath, trying to push his fangs back into his gums. 

Richie stayed put, pulling himself up in the chair, but he had peeled off the hoodie he had on, stripping down to his t-shirt, looking up at Eddie as Eddie took inventory of him: the cuts on his face had healed up, but he could still smell a fresh bleed somewhere. Richie’s t-shirt was stained in splotches of red, torn in places and Eddie bites back more than his fangs—Richie wouldn’t answer his questions anyway, though Eddie knew that he still got bullied, viciously and violently, even with his newfound strength, he was usually outnumbered, at least four on one. 

Eddie wishes he had been there; he puts the kit on the table before he breaks it between his hands, the supplies spilling out onto the floor, contaminated.

“Like I said, you’re wasting your time, I’m almost all fixed up,” Richie says, grinning up at him, shorter than Eddie like this, seated and having to crane his neck up instead of the other way around. “I’m like Wolverine, buddy, it’s fuckin’ cool.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes, his chest aching to smile, to be thankful, but old fear skitters through his veins. “Yeah, well, Wolverine never got his ass kicked after school.” 

He can’t meet Richie’s eyes after, turning to open the case and organizing what he’ll need—no bandages, but gauze, maybe, hydrogen peroxide to clean the cuts, the ones still visible. Eddie’s hands shake as he grapples with the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, his fangs growing sharper in his mouth, biting into the insides of his cheeks, drawing his own blood. 

“Hey,” Richie says, his hand clasping around Eddie’s wrist, stilling his hand; Eddie keeps his head down, looking towards the floor. “Come on, it’s okay, I’ve had worse.” 

Richie’s hand is warm on Eddie’s skin, hotter than it should be, burning up like he might have a fever, but Eddie knows that’s just how his body works— _wolves run hot,_ Richie told him once, shrugging, _it’s just a werewolf thing._ Eddie used to resent that, the ways he and Richie would different, Richie and his werewolf thing, a separate piece of him that Eddie could never share; he lets out a gasping, rattling laugh. 

_Be careful what you wish for._

Eddie can’t force his fangs back; he can’t stop the way he listens to Richie’s heartbeat, the hypnotic thudding tempo racing too fast, the pulse rushing under his skin filling Eddie’s ears, calling out to him and luring him in, an invitation he doesn’t want to take. 

“Eds,” Richie says, voice softer, treading carefully. 

Eddie swallows his saliva back, trying to make his mouth less wet, wiping at his lips. “You should take off your t-shirt, too,” he says, before he can stop himself. “I can smell the cuts under there.” 

He expects Richie to make a joke, or a dirty remark that isn’t flirting, not really, not if he pretends it’s not and they can keep on pretending, but Richie doesn’t say anything, he just does it; he obeys, which is something Eddie doesn’t want to linger on too long. Richie drops his blood stained t-shirt on the table in a heap and Eddie wants to throw it in the sink, soak it in cold water to get the red out, but Richie hasn’t let him go, grip not tight but firm, Richie’s thumb rubbing circles over his pulse point. 

Eddie chooses to start with cleaning the cuts, folding gauze over the top of the opened bottle and tip it over until he starts to feel the gauze get damp. He turns towards Richie and feels Richie start to pull him towards him in a light tug. He tries to keep his eyes down, but he has to look up to see what needs cleaning, so he flattens his lips and keeps his mouth closed. 

Richie was right—all the marks were erased, leaving smooth skin stained in red, blood smeared across his torso like Richie had been playing around with fake Halloween makeup, unreal without the cuts. His mouth waters, tongue itching to lick away the mess; he tries to banish the thought, but then his mind latches onto the rest of Richie, shirtless sitting in his kitchen, looking up at Eddie with his pupils enlarged as he bites his lip, his fingers still encircling Eddie’s wrist. Eddie can’t decide which was worse. 

Eddie turns to the solution he had to one of the problems and starts with Richie’s collarbone, wiping away the blood there with the soaked gauze, running it over his skin until the white turns red, then brown. Eddie reaches for another gauze pad, but Richie stops him, letting go of his left wrist to only grasp his right. 

“Rich,” Eddie hisses, lisping through his fangs; his cheeks burn, flushing all the way down his throat, “let me finish.” 

Richie doesn’t let go. 

“There’s nothing for you to fix, Eds,” he says, reaching up to grab Eddie’s chin, forcing Eddie’s head up, forcing their eyes to meet until Eddie can see that Richie’s eyes have turn from blue to amber, Richie’s cheeks as pink as Eddie thinks his must be. “You know you don’t have to hide from me.” 

Richie’s thumb brushes Eddie’s bottom lip, stroking over the curve of it in a way that makes Eddie begin to tremble—not nerves, not exactly, more like he’s ready to burst out of his skin like a caterpillar busts out of its cocoon when it grows wings, when it becomes a butterfly. Richie presses down, pulling his lip away from his teeth and Eddie gasps, giving way, letting him see the sharpness of his teeth, baring his fangs for him. 

“Wow,” Richie breathes out, hand lingering until his palm flattens against Eddie’s jaw, cupping his cheek. “Your fangs are wicked cool.” 

Eddie tries to duck his head, but Richie catches the movement, keeping Eddie staring straight at him. “They’re not, they’re weird. This is weird, isn’t it?” he asks, but Richie only laughs in response. 

“My whole life’s been weird, if this is weird,” he says, peering at him, eyes falling to Eddie’s mouth while his thumb inches upwards until Eddie feels it press against the bottom row of his teeth—too close to the sharp points. “Yours look a little different than mine, slimmer, maybe vampires, or well half-vampires, have more feline-looking fangs?” 

Eddie moans, can’t help it, and can’t swallow it back when Richie has his fingers in his mouth. “Please,” he says, when Richie glances up at him, golden eyes magnified by the glasses he doesn’t need to wear. “I’m—” Eddie stops, unable to finish the sentence. 

_I’m hungry, and you smell good._

“Oh,” Richie says, dropping his hand, but he doesn’t back away, looking up at Eddie as his head cocks to the side, assessing Eddie with a curious gaze. “Oh, oh—do you want blood? I mean, are you hungry? Isn’t that what vampires like? Blood?” 

Eddie can’t get the words out, caught in his throat, but he nods, turning redder; it’s never been like this before, never hit as hard, and he knows he doesn’t _need_ it, not to survive, but he wants it—he craves it. 

“You can have some,” Richie offers, holding Eddie’s gaze, but it doesn’t stop the nervous laughter escaping his mouth, or the way his lips curve into an awkward grin—his scent shifts, less woodsy and more musky, cloying and thick, like Eddie can taste it on his tongue. “Some of mine, you know, if you want? I’ll heal, and my blood will regenerate, so like—what I’m saying is, you can have some and not feel guilty.” 

Eddie wishes he would take it back, tack on a _ha ha just kidding, shoulda seen the look on your face!_ But the offer hangs in the air, Richie looking up at him with wide and expectant eyes, like he was ready to bare his throat if Eddie asked. 

Richie reaches for his hand again, and Eddie lets himself be propelled forward, climbing into Richie’s lap, his legs bracketing his hips as he settles down on his thighs, arching close enough that he can hear the pounding of Richie’s pulse as loud as his own, their tempos intermingling. Getting up close, Eddie figures out the source of the change in his scent when he rocks his hips forward and feels Richie hard in his jeans, same as Eddie. _Arousal_ , he thinks, that’s what it smells like.

Eddie leans down and swipes at his throat, licking away the dried blood, nuzzling Richie after, nose buried under his jaw. “You’re sure?” he asks, feeling the way Richie shakes under him, watching goosebumps erupt across his skin where Eddie breathes over, wet skin drying. “You want me to bite you, Rich?” 

“Please,” Richie says—begging, Eddie hadn’t asked him to beg, but he can’t say he doesn’t like it, watching the way Richie swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat. “I mean, _yes_ —yes, I’m sure.” 

This is his first time, Eddie had never bitten anyone before, hadn’t tasted anyone’s blood but his own and there is still a small part of him that recoils at the idea, a voice the sounds like his mother’s telling him how wrong and disgusting this was, but it fades to the background when Richie leans his head to the side, offering Eddie the space where his shoulder meets his throat. Eddie lets himself be lulled by the increasing tempo of Richie’s heart, his fingers finding the grooves between Richie’s ribs when his hands slide down. He braces himself against Richie’s torso as he arches his neck down, mouth opening over the juncture of Richie’s body. 

Eddie scrapes his teeth against Richie’s skin, eliciting a shuddering gasp from Richie’s mouth. Eddie keeps his hips pinned down, but it doesn’t stop Eddie from rocking forward, seeking friction as Richie tries to buck up, but holds onto the sides of Eddie’s waist to keep him from toppling off. He goes slow when biting down, lining up the points of his fangs against the surface of Richie’s skin, letting them sink down, puncturing Richie’s skin—Richie sucks in a deep breath, moaning when Eddie bites all the way down. 

“Fuck,” Richie groans.

Eddie wraps his lips around the wound he made, but he can’t seem to retract his fangs, opting to lick the flow of blood instead of sucking, moaning as he laps at the stream of blood from the puncture wounds he made, diligent to get every drop. He tongues at the holes, keeping them open for longer, delaying the inevitable healing process. “You taste sweet,” he whispers in Richie’s ear, making him whimper. Eddie bucks forward when Richie’s hands fall from his waist to his hips, hauling him closer. 

Richie tastes like an overripe melon, still fresh but sticky and juicy; biting into him makes the taste explode in his mouth, clinging to his teeth and coating his throat as he tries to swallow it down. Their heartbeats match up in rhythm, or maybe Eddie’s falls away, and all he can hear is Richie’s, slowing but steady, still strong. The wounds heal, it’s inevitable, and Eddie wants to bite him again, chase more of that flavor, and he knows that Richie would let him, let Eddie bite him wherever he wanted, lay himself out for him. 

_Richie would let me do anything to him._

The thought goes to his head, heady and dreamy, then to his cock, aching and throbbing as he grinds down. His fangs slip back in his gums when Eddie puts his mouth back on Richie's throat, tonguing at the scar he left there, sucking bruises into his skin that will fade away moments later, hands sliding up from his ribs to feel the way Richie’s nipples pebble up against his thumbs when he circles them, liking the way Richie arches up into it. 

His father clears his throat, the sound hitting Eddie like a bucket of ice water. “Excuse me, but I seem to be interrupting something,” he says, making Richie’s hands drop from Eddie’s hips, but Eddie stays on top of him, straddling him, twisting around to meet his father’s gaze, “though, this is my kitchen. Maybe a more private place next time?” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” Eddie says, sounding petulant even to his own ears, but he can’t bring himself to care as Richie stills under him, then reaches for his hoodie, trying to wrangle it over his head in a rush. “We couldn’t have been that loud to wake you up.” 

His father pins him with a stare that makes him feel stripped, flayed to the bone, but Eddie knows he can’t listen in on his thoughts, he doesn’t know what’s in his head—it doesn’t stop him from feeling a chill run down his spine. “You think I couldn’t smell the blood, even in my sleep?”

“Sorry, Mr. Kaspbrak,” Richie says in a rush, trying to nudge Eddie off his lap, but Eddie rushes to budge, making Richie resort to lifting him up by his armpits and slipping out from under him, trying to make a quick exit, yanking his the hem of his sweater down over his crotch. “I didn’t mean to, I’ll be going now. Sorry again,” he says, then lowers his voice, looking at Eddie, “I’ll see you later.” 

Richie leaves out the front door, throwing his backpack over one shoulder, the door shutting behind him, leaving Eddie alone with his father. Eddie turns back to him, while his father has moved across the floor, fingers toying with the blood stained t-shirt that Richie left behind. “I didn’t mean to spook him,” he says, glancing down at Eddie. 

Eddie juts up his chin, glaring at his father. “I’m sure you didn’t,” he says, edging away from his father, but Frank matches his steps, like they were bound together with some invisible rope. Eddie holds out his hand, trying to stop him from getting closer. “Leave me alone, I’m going upstairs.” 

“Eddie,” his father says, voice softening, almost a croon. “Please don’t be mad at me, I smelled the blood and wasn’t sure what was happening until—you shouldn’t have brought him here, you know how dangerous that was, and then you…” 

“I what?” Eddie asks, anger flaring up inside of him like a firecracker, ready to snap. “Come on, tell me, what did I do?” 

Frank closes his eyes, fingers coming up to brace against the bridge of his nose and forehead, pinching down as he sighs out. “You _bit_ him, you _fed_ on him, and don’t try and deny it, you got some on your shirt, son.” 

He looks down and sees the stain of red splattered down the front of his blue polo, feels the flaking dried blood on his throat; he didn’t notice at the time, thought he was getting it all, but he had gone wild, lapping at Richie like an animal. 

“I heard him, all his thoughts, what he wanted to do to you,” his father says, wincing at the memory, “and I smelled more than the blood.” 

Eddie feels hot, his face burning, the taste of Richie’s blood still clinging to the roof of his mouth, lingering on his tongue, the way even just a few drops filled him up in a way he hadn’t had words for yet— _sated_ , he thinks, _satisfied_ —but the way his father looks at him makes his stomach clench and turn queasy, shame hitting low in his guts, spoiling over. 

It’s the only explanation for what he spits out next. 

“Are you jealous, daddy?” he asks, holding his gaze—unreadable as ever, though Eddie should know what is going on behind his eyes, they’re Eddie’s own after all, but his father knew how to mask and lock down his emotions, so all that Eddie saw was his own stare reflected back in the flat, brown gaze. “Did you want to be my first?” 

Frank lets it hang in the air, a few beats too long, making Eddie’s skin feel too tight, pinched as his father clenches his jaw. 

“Go upstairs and get cleaned up,” he says, voice low as he lowers his gaze, eyeing Eddie from his feet back to his eyes, “you’ve made a mess of yourself.”

Eddie doesn’t argue, not this time—this time, he does what he’s told. 

But the lack of an answer tells him enough.

Eddie stays up in his room for the rest of the night, locking the door and putting a chair under the doorknob for added security. His father knocks a few times, pleading for him to open the door intermittently, like if he waited another hour or so, Eddie will have changed his mind and come out. He doesn’t. In his idle moments, Eddie thinks about jumping out of the window and making for Richie’s house—wouldn’t be the first time he snuck out and climbed through Richie’s window, but he wasn’t sure if Richie wanted to see him right now. 

Eddie lays across his bed, closing his eyes, letting time click by. 

As it gets later into the night, far past the time when Eddie would have slept when he thought he was still human, his father stops coming at all. Silence creeps into the house and Eddie can’t sleep, lying on his bed, listening to his lungs expand and deflate, the way his heartbeat remains steady, all too aware of himself and his body. He dodges and avoids his own thoughts, like if he gets too close to certain threads, he might unravel. 

_Was this a punishment for his father, or self exile?_ Eddie couldn’t be sure as his anger subsided, mellowing into a longing he wanted to stamp out and squash, but his father wasn’t like his mother, and he knew he couldn’t remain obstinate for very long; with him, Eddie grew an instinct to forgive, rather than relenting out of guilt. 

Outside his window, the sun begins to rise—blue at first, then pinks and purple; Eddie is out of his bed before it warms to an orange, removing the chair from his door and tripping the lock, letting himself back into the rest of the house. 

The basement door was left open a crack, and it was not like his father to be careless, but Eddie knew it for what it was: an invitation. 

Eddie accepts it, sliding past the door and closing it behind him; he drops any pretense as he descends into the dark, doesn’t bother to lighten his steps and lets his father hear him approach. There isn’t a light on, but he knew his father was awake, his eyes shining in the dark, watching Eddie come closer. 

“Am I forgiven?” he asks, when Eddie reaches the bed, his father folding back the covers, offering up the space beside him. 

Eddie doesn’t answer him, but he climbs over his legs and slips into the bed, sliding between the sheets, and lets his father draw the covers around him, tucking him in as Eddie fits himself against his father’s side, allowing him to wrap an arm around him, drawing him closer. “I couldn’t sleep,” Eddie admits, taking a deep breath that stretches out into a yawn, his limbs becoming heavy as he sinks into the feeling, lulled into the comfort of his father’s embrace. “Tell me a story.” 

His father laughs, light and airy, breathing out across Eddie’s cheek. “A bedtime story?” 

Eddie shakes his head. “I want to hear the story about how I was born,” Eddie says, tugging the covers tighter over his shoulder, “Tell me about the night you left, about the deal you made with mommy.” 

“I already told you that story,” his father says, combing his fingers through Eddie’s hair, getting caught in the curls he let grow out longer than his mother would have ever allowed. 

Frank Kaspbrak knows the cadence of storytelling, the right beats to hit, when to pause, his voice low and a timbre smooth like honey—an easy voice to fall asleep to, better when he was telling Eddie truths instead of poisoned lies; Eddie wanted him to rewrite his memories, since they can’t go back in time and start over from the beginning. 

Eddie looks up at him, his eyes silver in the darkness. “Tell me again.”

Eddie thinks he must still be dreaming when his eyes open midday, limbs feeling heavy and his head thick, like it was filled with cotton, but the cool tips of his father’s fingers tracing over the plane of his forehead and his silver eyes cast down on Eddie tell a different story, too real to be still under the haze of sleep. 

“Go back to sleep, baby boy,” his father says, his fingers stroking over Eddie’s eyebrows, the gentle sensation begging him to lean into it, so he does, letting his eyes flutter closed. “It’s too early to be up.” 

“You’re awake,” Eddie says, whimpering at the sudden pang in his stomach, wincing at the way it growls—he hadn’t eaten anything the night before, nothing but the blood Richie offered, which would have sustained him, had he not been only half a vampire. 

His father cups his cheek, thumb running down Eddie’s cheekbone as Eddie turns to him, lets him draw him in closer. “I was just watching over you, I used to do it when you were just a newborn, spent nights with my hand on your chest, feeling you breathe,” he says, letting out a depreciative laugh, “your mother thought I was trying to steal your soul, suck the life right out of you.” 

“Were you?” Eddie asks, shifting up on his elbow, hoping his father could see his grin in the dark. “I don’t know much about vampires, for all I know that could be true, vampires stealing the souls of newborns.” 

Frank cups his other hand around Eddie’s cheek, his cool palm cradling his face as he draws Eddie closer until Richie feels his lips brush his forehead, leaving a kiss there. “Don’t be silly.” 

Eddie feels his stomach clench, the growl growing louder, the sound loud enough for his father to hear and peer at him, his silver eyes narrowing into slits. 

“I’m hungry,” Eddie admits. “I should go upstairs, grab a snack or breakfast. All I had yesterday was…” He trails off, unable to meet his father’s eyes as a furious blush burns across his cheeks, even in the darkness. “I should—I should go get something.” 

Eddie tries to climb over his father and scramble out of bed, but his father grabs a hold of him, hands gripping him around the waist, hauling him back into bed, but not beside him, Eddie lands in his lap—first cradled in his arms like a baby, then with his legs on either side of his father’s thighs. 

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got something that will help,” he father says, arm wrapped around Eddie’s back, keeping him in place as his other hand comes up, his fingernails growing longer and sharper, like claws. Eddie shrinks away from him, or tries too, but his father’s arm holds him still; his father swipes his claws across his own chest, creating three even lines across his right pectoral. Eddie smells the blood before his eyes adjust and he sees it, dripping down his father’s chest, scent of it intoxicating and alluring—different from Richie’s, not so much ripe but fermented, like sweet red wine his father let him take a sip of once, just to have a taste. 

His father’s fingers climb up his spine, pressing into the groove over his shirt until his hand comes around the back of Eddie’s neck, not pushing, just holding, thumb under Eddie’s jaw and stroking over his throat. “Go on, have some,” he urges, watching Eddie as Eddie feels his fangs start to slide out, mouth watering. “It won’t be the same as mortal blood, but it suffices and it’s less dangerous, while you’re still new, still getting the hang of it. It’s alright if you bite me.” 

Eddie worries he should have more trepidation, ask his father _why now?_ when he could have been offering this before, but his hunger overrides his ability to process, the smell of his father’s blood too appetizing to resist. 

He can’t be sure if he leaned forward and took the first swipe at the blood with his tongue, or his father let him there, cradling his head, waiting for him to latch and start sucking, but Eddie starts with his lips around the cuts his father made for him, the pressure making his blood gush into his mouth—not as warm as Richie’s, and too sweet, cloying like sugar but just as addictive. Eddie tries to suck harder, searching for that same sustenance from before, seeking to feel full. Eddie whimpers as his father strokes his hair, petting him as he feeds, complimenting him, whispering, _that’s it, you’re doing so good, so good for me._

Eddie pulls off, gasping for breath, looking up as his father tilts his chin towards him. “Had enough?” he asks, and Eddie shakes his head, lowering his mouth once more.

His father gasps above him as Eddie traces his tongue up the trails of blood that ran down over his chest, dripping around the curve of his muscle, until he feels a nipple against the flat of his tongue. His father’s blood was like being drugged, wanting more and finding it to be never enough, making his head feel floaty and not quite there, disconnected from the rest of his body. Eddie bites down around his father’s nipple, sinking his teeth into the firm flesh as blood spills into his mouth, warm enough and sticky as his blood goes down his throat. 

Eddie can’t be sure how long he sucks, but at some point his fangs retracted and his father’s wounds had healed, leaving Eddie to suck on his father’s nipple as his father moans above him, his fingers tangling in Eddie’s hair. He comes back to his body when he realizes his cock is hard, leaking wetly in his briefs as he ground down against his father’s thigh, the sensation of it knocking the breath from his lungs as he sits up and stares into his father’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking— _Jesus Christ_ , I’m so sorry,” Eddie says in a rush, his breath moving too quick in and out of his lungs, and he wishes he had his inhaler to at least give himself something to focus on besides the humiliation and horror of his current predicament. “I—” 

His father presses his fingers to Eddie’s lips, closing his mouth for him. “Shh, it’s okay, it happens, kiddo. It’s normal, don’t worry about it, I’m not mad,” he says, voice low in Eddie’s ear, smooth dulcet tones settling Eddie’s nerves, bringing him back down. His father reaches for his wrist and pulls his hand forward, pressing Eddie’s palm down between his legs—his father was hard, too, hot and pulsing through his thin pajama pants. “See?” 

Eddie flushes, his stomach doing somersaults under his ribs, a hard flutter in his guts like going over the steep drop down a rollercoaster, but he doesn’t take his hand away, not even when his father lets go of his wrist and reaches up to stroke back Eddie’s hair, gathering his face up between his palms. “Do you want me to help?” he asks, and Eddie is almost certain what he means, but it feels a step too far from any reality he can grasp a hold of, so he nods and waits to find out which it is. 

His father doesn’t take his pants off, just pushes the elastic of his pajama pants and briefs down Eddie’s hips, settling the grip of it below the curve of his ass as he pulls Eddie’s cock free. His father’s hand on his cock feels different from his own—bigger, with a stronger grip, more confident in what he’s doing when he runs his hand down the length of Eddie, then back up again, coating him in his own slick leaking from the head of his cock. “Fuck, baby,” he father breathes out, making Eddie’s hips jump when he runs a thumb over the head of Eddie’s cock, “you get so wet.” 

Eddie wants to duck his head, an apology on the edge of his tongue, but he can’t breathe when he watches his father reach into the front of his own pajama pants and pull himself out, then his father presses Eddie’s cock against his own, both of them squeezed in his grip. Eddie starts to tremble, feeling too hot for his skin, wanting to claw his way out and find a way to breathe, but he also wants to get lost in the sensation of being pressed this close to his father, his father’s hand on him, his other hand on his ass, pulling him as close as he can get, his breath ghosting across Eddie’s lips. 

“You can thrust against me,” his father says, leaning forward until their foreheads come together, his eyes dimmed, but still silver, a focus point for Eddie to look at as his hips start to jerk, “yeah, that’s it, just rock your hips for me, I’ll take care of the rest, I’m going to make you feel good, baby boy.” 

Eddie balances himself on his father’s arms, gripping first on his shoulders, but his hands slip to his biceps, gripping tight, his nails digging in as he picks up a rhythm, rubbing his cock on his father’s. His father holds them together, pumping his hand up and down the length of them both, punching a gasp out of Eddie everytime he strokes down, white-hot pleasure hitting Eddie between his thighs and ricocheting up his spine. 

He doesn’t last long, not like this, not when he was ready to blow the moment his father touched his cock, but he lasts longer than he thought he would, grinding his cock against his father’s when the sensation gets too much, and he comes on his father’s stomach, the splash back hitting his own legs as he shakes in the aftermath. His father doesn’t stop, stroking them together until Eddie starts to feel tears prick at his eyes, sobbing out as he feels a second wave hit him like undertow, toppling him over; he feels his father come this time, spurting out over his own hand and splashing across Eddie’s stomach. 

Eddie is gathered up in his father’s arms, not allowed to slump against his chest and breathe in the scent of his sweat, but cradled up in his arms as his father kisses his temple, then his forehead, and both his cheeks, avoiding his mouth where Eddie finds he aches to be kissed. “I love you,” his father says, letting Eddie curl up on him, head resting on his sternum as he scoot down the bed, both of them laying down, tangled together. “You’re so good, Eddie, I can’t believe you’re mine.” 

Eddie feels the press of his father’s lips at the crown of his head, right before sleep overtakes him a second time.

Eddie wakes up sticky with sweat, come, and blood, his skin sticking to his father’s, fusing them together. Eddie peels back the covers, slipping on the wet cotton sheets as he eases himself away, grimacing at the way it all congealed, how it flakes when he slides out of bed, away from his father. 

His father doesn’t wake up, his sleeping body curling into the warm space Eddie left behind; Eddie watches his father bury his face in the pillow Eddie slept on with a curious unease that floods his system; his father breathes in the scent Eddie left behind, then his body goes slack, slumber overtaking him again. Eddie turns and dashes up the stairs before he loses his nerve, climbing up the second set of stairs and turning into the upstairs bathroom, locking the door behind him as he leans back against the wood, staying like that until he gets his breathing under control. 

Eddie turns on the shower, cranking it all the way to hot, letting the room fill with steam as he drops his underwear in the hamper—the only article of clothing that made it up the stairs with him, bunched in his hand. The shower burns when he steps under the spray, a good burn, the kind of heat that wakes him up and lifts the hazy fog from his mind, leaving only his stark mind and his memories, the remnants of which he tries to scrub away, washing it down the drain. He dries off and gets dressed in a blur, moving on autopilot, his mind disconnected from his body until he shoves his feet into his sneakers and makes it out the front door. 

It’s nighttime, way past sunset, if Eddie can tell by the crisp air that fills his nose and mouth, and the full moon is high in the sky, brighter than the streetlights. He doesn’t need to think about where he’s going, he just goes, following familiar paths until he’s standing outside the Tozier house. The windows are black, lights out—of course, no one would be home, not tonight, not on the full moon, but it doesn’t deter Eddie, climbing up the tree outside Richie’s window without issue, almost effortless as he balances from branch to branch. 

Sometimes being a half-vampire had its perks. 

Richie left his window unlocked, despite Eddie scolding him for how unsafe it was—he was grateful for his carelessness on a night like this, shoving the window up and slipping inside. It would be hours until dawn, but Eddie was prepared to wait, relaxing as he breathes in the warm, comforting scent of Richie that permeated the room, that lived in the weave of his sheets when Eddie laid down on his bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling out the comics Richie kept in his bedside drawer to read, pulling up the covers up around his shoulders. 

Eddie imagines Richie running in the woods with his parents, imagines how it would feel to shift out of his own body and become something else, become something that could run through the trees, free from any human bounds, if only for an evening. Eddie used to be envious of what Richie was, remembering asking Richie when he was ten to bite him and make Eddie like him, and the crushing weight when he realized that wasn’t how it worked. In his mind’s eye, he could see Richie with his dark fur, streaking through the forest like a shadow, could remember the silky feel of it between his fingers when Richie used to turn into a wolf spontaneously when he was too young to control it, then later because Eddie liked to stroke his fur and Richie liked to let him. 

He is not sure when he had fallen back asleep, dreaming of wolves instead of his father’s silver eyes and his own sharp teeth, but he wakes up to Richie sitting beside him, flicking through one of the long forgotten comic books. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, pushing himself up onto his elbows, getting Richie’s attention. 

Richie grins, soft and without teeth. “Hey yourself. Bad night? Or day? I’m not sure how time works anymore,” he says, laughing, running his fingers through his hair, the strands longer than usual, hanging in loose curls around his face. “When did you get here?” 

Eddie pushes himself up all the way, sitting beside Richie, his legs folded criss-cross-applesauce. “I’m not sure, I don’t remember. I just needed to get out, needed to see you,” he says, waiting for Richie to flinch, or dodge the conversation, but Richie stares at him, holding his gaze. 

“I wanted to see you, too,” Richie says, his voice lowered, his hand reaching out to cover Eddie’s; his palm was warm with rough calluses, dry patches that scraped against Eddie’s skin, nothing like his father's smooth, cool hands. “I’m sorry for running out like that, I should have stayed and not chickened out, but I—”

Eddie cuts him off with a kiss, their mouths colliding together as Eddie pulls the comic out of his hand, and tosses it aside. Richie stills, but melts into him, molds himself around Eddie as Eddie pulls him closer, tugging him by the t-shirt until Richie falls on top of him, bracing his fall on his forearms and breaking the kiss before Eddie hauls him back down, grasping his face between his hands. Richie smells of pine trees and dirt, and a musky animal scent Eddie can’t quite name; his mouth is hot and slick when he opens up for Eddie, letting Eddie lick inside and taste the remnants of meat with a gamey aftertaste—Richie’s kill of the night.

Richie pulls away, gasping for breath, holding Eddie down and away, looking down at him with pinkened cheeks and swollen lips, his hair wild around his face. “Are you okay?” he asks, letting his weight fall on Eddie, cupping his cheek with a gentle caress. “You can talk about it with me, whatever it is.” 

Eddie tries to swallow the hysterical laughter that threatens to burst out of his mouth, and mostly succeeds, but it makes his eyes water, Richie fingers brush away the wetness building up at his lash line and pooling in the corner of his eyes. Eddie pulls back the collar of Richie’s shirt, pressing his fingers down over the scar his teeth left behind, liking the way it makes Richie’s eyes flash—golden and feral, just for a moment, before resting back into his normal blue. 

“I want you to kiss me, or hold me— or for you to turn into a wolf, so I can pet you. I’ve had enough of talking,” Eddie says, swallowing away the tension building in his throat. “What’s it going to be?” 

Eddie watches as Richie sits up on his knees and pulls his shirt up over his head, then shimmys off the bed and strips away the jeans he must have put on for Eddie’s benefit. Richie stands naked in front of Eddie in the early morning light, their eyes locking as Richie starts to shift, his skin sliding away to shiny black fur, his body bending in half until he is on all fours, no longer human when he looks back up at Eddie. He climbs up on his bed and stretches out along Eddie’s body, until Eddie pats his chest and Richie takes the invitation, resting his huge head on Eddie’s sternum. 

Richie likes to be scratched behind the ears, so Eddie starts there, petting and scritching as Richie nuzzles into him, letting Eddie stare up at the ceiling with his hands buried in Richie’s thick fur. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content Warnings:** father/son incest, sexual grooming of a minor by a parent, dubious consent due to power imbalance and general vampire mythology building, blood drinking, underage sex between an adult and a minor, as well as consensual sexual contact between two minors.


End file.
